let me tell you a story about war (the ground surrenders)
by possibilist
Summary: 'You plan to take her to brunch, apologize, spend the day touching her gently, roughly, making up for lost time. You knock on her door and wait (somewhat impatiently) for a minute or two before it swings open, and there's blonde hair and pale skin and thin shoulders but definitely not Quinn.' Faberry Week Day Two: Meeting Frannie.


['You plan to take her to brunch, apologize, spend the day touching her gently, roughly, making up for lost time. You knock on her door and wait (somewhat impatiently) for a minute or two before it swings open, and there's blonde hair and pale skin and thin shoulders but definitely not Quinn.' Faberry Week Day Two: Meeting Frannie.]

**...**

**let me tell you a story about war (the ground surrenders)**

_._

_You know what it's like to be alive, so forgiveness.  
All night the trees stand silent in the dark, not touching.  
_—Richard Siken, "The Stag and the Quiver"

.

You were an ass.

This is what you're currently thinking about on the train to New Haven, your brain spinning in the early morning sun. You keep going over just what exactly had set you off, mostly so you don't do it again. Of course, Quinn had been her troubled, moody self, getting egotistical and defensive of performance studies' importance over drama itself during a goodnight Skype conversation Thursday night. You know you're both tired because you're nearing midterms in your spring term of your last year at university, and it was a stupid argument that ended up escalating into tears for both of you. You'd slammed your computer closed without saying goodbye—your Skype app had been concerned a few hours later—and, other than a text yesterday checking on Quinn's general vitality—she'd responded, _I'm alive._—you hadn't talked for the rest of the day.

You want to apologize, and you will—in person—but you're learning that you need a little space—as does Quinn—to clear your heads, to ground yourselves once again in this mature thing you're building together. You like to think—and you _do _think—you're both growing so much, so healthily.

You pick up sunflowers after you get off at the station and walk toward her apartment. You plan to take her to brunch, apologize, spend the day touching her gently, roughly, making up for lost time.

You knock on her door and wait (somewhat impatiently) for a minute or two before it swings open, and there's blonde hair and pale skin and thin shoulders but definitely not Quinn.

You've met Frannie—who is currently in a tank top and running shorts, barefoot, messy blonde hair that's shorter than Quinn's, and you're pretty sure she's hungover because she's squinting painfully at you in the sun—a few times before, mostly over Quinn's sleeping, pain medicine-hazy form in the hospital and twice over dinner sophomore year the first time you and Quinn tried to date.

"Hi," she says, and then laughs lightly because her voice comes out rough.

"Hello," you say, and stand awkwardly for a second until she moves aside and lets you in the front door.

You see half a bottle of gin and an emptied six pack on the coffee table in front of the couch—as well as an empty tub of hummus and a pack of American Spirits—and you smile when Frannie groans and sits down on the fluffy armchair in the corner.

She curls up, knees tucked to her chest, so reminiscent of Quinn, and whispers, "Quinn's still asleep."

You nod, put the sunflowers down on the end table.

Frannie tilts her head for a moment, and she's beautiful—even hungover—which makes you irrationally jealous for a moment. You still think Quinn is the most stunning human you've ever seen, but Frannie gives her a run for her money, and you think Quinn will grow into her body further, be imbued with more grace, over the next few years, because Frannie moves with an easiness that Quinn hasn't quite developed yet.

"Quinn's out of bagels," Frannie tells you quietly after a few moments. "Let's go to breakfast."

"You and me?" you check.

She nods commandingly, arching an eyebrow—you don't wonder where Quinn got that from—and you have really no choice but to say, "Okay."

"Wait here," she says, and she walks into Quinn's bedroom. You drift so you can see through the doorway, and Frannie sits down gently on the bed. Quinn is curled up in what you can tell is a Stanford t-shirt, hogging—like always—the majority of her duvet. "Hey kid," Frannie whispers, brushing some of Quinn's messy hair out of her eyes.

Quinn groans and stays completely still, and Frannie laughs.

"I'm going to get some breakfast, okay? But I'll be back soon with bagels. Keep sleeping, yeah?"

"Mhm," Quinn breathes, and Frannie kisses her forehead and then silently—carefully, which makes you smile, because her mannerisms, the care she takes, reminds you so much of her younger sister—opens Quinn's top left dresser drawer and pulls out your favorite, faded navy blue Yale t-shirt and lifts her tank top over her head. You know Quinn's scars from their father, but you've never seen Frannie's before, and they strike you for a moment—bring you to tears—before your eyes are drawn to a large watercolor tattoo, bright colors stretching up Frannie's right side from below the waistband of her shorts nearly to her shoulder blade, floating onto almost half of her back, soft edges. It's gentle and beautiful and striking and so fitting, you think, the same way Quinn's simple black tattoos on her ribcage fit her—you know Frannie is an artist, and you suddenly know you understand more about her than you'd thought.

You walk back into the living room quietly and Frannie walks out of the bedroom a minute later, running a hand through her hair and slipping on shoes, throwing one of Quinn's Yale sweatshirts on over her t-shirt and nodding. She grabs her keys—you're immediately fond of that fact that Frannie has a key too when she locks the door on your way out.

She puts on sunglasses with a muted groan and you walk quietly to Blue State and when Frannie orders a cappuccino and everything bagel with cream cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions, you laugh.

She smiles, asks, "Where do you think she learned it from?"

She insists on paying, and you grab your order and sit in the corner, and Frannie follows and sits down across from you.

She stares you down for a few seconds before saying, "So Quinn told me about your fight."

You nod, take a sip of your soy latte while Frannie bites her bagel.

"She also called me in tears on Friday morning and asked me to come visit and had already acquired gin when I got here."

You have the striking urge to apologize. "It wasn't my finest moment," you say.

Frannie nods. "Needless to say I'm not twenty-one anymore and my body really cannot handle that much alcohol again for a while."

You laugh, and Frannie joins; she has a wonderful sense of humor, slightly less serious—slightly more healed—than Quinn.

"I know you love to talk," she continues, "but just—listen for a few, okay?"

"Okay," you agree.

"I know my sister is a shit, and I know because I lived with her for thirteen years." She frowns briefly. "And we've been close for the past three, so trust me, I know."

You pick at your vegan blueberry scone.

"And I know how hard it is to be with someone like her—someone like us," she amends. "So this is, like, the talk but not the talk, yeah?"

You nod with a small smile, because Frannie is being sweet and protective, and even hungover, her blue eyes are bright—happy, full of forgiveness and acceptance.

"So, look, Rachel," she says, "I trust that you're in love with my baby sister, and I have no doubts that my sister is in love with you, that she's been in love with you for a really long time. And I think you know this, but—" she pauses, takes a deep breath—"we're fucked up, Quinn maybe even more than me, and it's going to take a lot. Robert and I still go to couple's counseling every now and then when we need to, and we have a really great marriage because we try."

She sits up a little straighter, smiles unwittingly into her cappuccino at the mention of Robert's name. Quinn's told you about him, spoken so happily about how healthy and wonderful he and Frannie's relationship is—and has been—for years.

"And Robert is incredibly patient, and I have to work to give him communication and not snap and things that I'm sure Quinn does all the time. So, you know, you just have to—the way Quinn loves," she says, and her voice is soft, "is remarkable, and so soft, and with so much bravery. And Rachel, I know she wants to spend her life with you, even if she won't tell you that yet."

You can't help but grin and let out a soft, "Yeah."

"So if you hurt her I'll fuck with you, is basically it," Frannie finishes, looking incredibly pleased, then laughs and takes a huge—and ungraceful—bite of her breakfast.

"Thank you, Frannie," you tell her honestly.

She nods, immediately serious, because she's an artist and you know she understands you mean for much more than this morning.

She asks you about midterms, about auditions, about how excited you are for Quinn to move to New York after graduation.

You talk easily, find out more about Robert, about her gallery in Boston, her installation at Brooklyn Art Museum, and you fish some Aleve out of her purse—which you always carry with you for Quinn, and you wonder now if her stubborn reluctance to be gentle to herself is inherited too—when Frannie groans again in the sunlight.

When you get back to Quinn's apartment—cappuccino and bagel in tow—and Quinn is just getting up, brushing hair out of her eyes and slouched over the counter in the kitchen.

She's confused for a second when she sees you, but then she breaks out into the biggest, shiest smile.

"I gave her the talk," Frannie says, handing Quinn her coffee and slinging an arm around Quinn's shoulders. You can imagine them, suddenly, as children, and it's quickly adorable that they're wearing each other's university gear, that they're messy and blonde and hungover in Quinn's tiny New Haven kitchen, marked—and healed—by their lives.

Frannie kisses Quinn's cheek and then says, "Go get your girl, baby sis."

Quinn grumbles a, "Don't call me that, Fran," but you walk toward her and she extracts herself from Frannie and she kisses you so gently it aches.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"You're forgiven," Quinn says. "Although we'll talk a little when I'm not dying from alcohol."

Frannie barks a laugh and pats you on the back, draws you into a hug, then says, "Well I'm going to change and then leave you two to whatever lesbians do."

You laugh and Quinn swats at Frannie playfully, and Frannie goes into Quinn's bedroom while you tuck your head into Quinn's shoulder and just hold her.

Frannie leaves a few minutes later with a kiss to Quinn's forehead and another warm hug for you, and you spend the day giving Quinn patience and love, drifting off to sleep in the early afternoon on top of Quinn on the couch to an _Orange is the New Black _marathon, her heart pattering away, breath warm on your neck.


End file.
